


Starving Artists

by TidalDragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TidalDragon/pseuds/TidalDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I paint the sky. You paint the ocean. We paint the sunrise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starving Artists

I’ve always liked mornings best. I often stand barefoot in the dewy grass before flying off to train, staring across the little town from atop my tiny hilltop home at the forest, swimming in fog, and think of the peace we now enjoy. I smile. It’s like being a little girl again, living in a cramped cottage in Alnwick with my parents, my older sister and my three brothers. I don’t have much, but I have this. Quiet except for the creatures brave enough to wake with me. Solace from the business that will characterize the rest of my day. Then I wait, sipping my coffee and nibbling on a buttered muffin. It’s my recipe for success.  
  
   
I close my eyes. The season is so close I can almost feel it. The wind driving my long chocolate hair behind me as I surge toward the scoring area. The firmness of the Quaffle pressed against my ribs. The sweat on the inside of my gloves.  
  
  
I open my eyes and smile. I don’t think anyone knows I play. At Hogwarts, despite all the practice I put in, I was too afraid to try. Suffice it to say I didn’t find my inner Gryffindor until that ship had long since sailed. The few friends I did make there while flying under the radar have all gone on to get normal jobs – mostly at the Ministry – working on the front lines of our new freedom like all the recruiting posters say. Some people still write me. Harry every Victory Day, mostly out of a misguided sense of continuing obligation to all of us in the D.A. Others mostly to talk about themselves and their frustrating bosses and difficulties with boys. Claire gets jealous enough that I’m surrounded by them waiting tables all summer at the pub that I don’t know what she’d do if I told her I shared a locker room with them.  
  
  
But the Coleford Diamonds play in the Third Division. I’m lucky enough the salary they pay me covers my necessities, but even making that happen takes a budget that would make a goblin proud. Finishing the last bite of my muffin, I retreat to the window of my tiny cottage, reaching in to drop my cup into the sink.  
  
  
It strikes with the distinctive clang of metal meeting metal. Nobody knows I have the cup either. I found it on one of my solitary adventures in the parts of the countryside that were riddled with old mineshafts. It still made me wonder what the miner who’d owned it before me was like. The museum in town only told me what miners did, but looking at the frozen Muggle photos I felt that I knew them – brave, hard-working, but out of the limelight – and imperfect, like our battered but functional friend. I smile again as I lace up my boots. We share similar footwear too. I grab my broom and kick.  
  
  
As the morning mist begins to melt away I’m flying and free. The rest of the team is just arriving but I’m already swooping through the sky. I’ve logged my laps long ago and the manager knows better than to question it by now. With the other players circling the pitch I dance in the middle practicing dives, feints, and shimmies, the tail of my broom sweeping through the few low-hanging clouds that remain. Eventually they join me and the drills begin. The flight of the bright red Quaffle makes sharp strokes through the air above the pitch. The boss likes straight lines – hard throws he thinks are harder to intercept. Sometimes I can’t help but feel I’m beyond that. Though I stop when prompted, my heart harbors hope that one day my passes will follow the looping, parabolic trajectories of the storied teams I grew up admiring from afar. For me, directness is transparency. Directness is a Beater’s game, sending imposing streaks of unburnished iron toward targets measured from yards away. As the dance goes on, the sun’s rays scythe through the fading fog, shooting out in a seemingly endless number of directions while our movements cut up the clouds. I am soaring.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
You were the one that turned up to paint our team portrait at the end of the year. Your features were sharper, more serious than I remembered. As I stood stoically, the architect of one of the most unlikely promotion campaigns our corner of the Quidditch world had ever seen, you sat perfectly still, your eyes darting back and forth from the team to the canvas. Your arm flowed at first, almost undulating as it made sweeping strokes across the top. By the end you never looked at us, intent on the work before you as your hand made minute flourishes to finish your latest masterpiece. Finally, Barnabus Rigby appeared to review what you’d done, nodding curtly before shaking your hand and pressing a pouch of galleons into your palm.  
  
  
Later, you were sitting at the bar staring. Staring into the pouch like the twenty galleons they’d paid you was the most money you’d ever seen. Amid the overflowing mugs and overwhelming noise you stayed quiet, calm, and collected at the center of the storm, making happy conversation with the Muggle innkeeper. Is it really this simple for most people – moving back and forth between worlds? You look up for a moment, catching my gaze. You smile – halfway – but then I’m gone, with you shaking your head as my Captain whisks me away for a dance.  
  
  
I next saw you at the Victory Ball – more frivolity and more dancing. Again, you were comfortable despite the scene. Between joking with Seamus Finnegan, talking brush tips with Luna Lovegood, and sharing a serious word with Hermione Granger, you always fit in. You caught me watching you, the plain girl in the crimson dress. You smiled – halfway – no judgment in your eyes at my lack of elegant adornments or perfectly done curls. The floor was filling as the band played on and you strode toward me, raising your arm with the same languid stroke I remembered from the portrait and offering me – of everyone there – a dance.  
  
  
You guided me across the gleaming tiles effortlessly. Your left hand is surprisingly rough, given your daily battles are with charcoal, oil paint, and clay. Your right must be similar, even if I can’t feel it fully through the fabric of my dress. The music slows and suddenly you’ve pulled me closer. You’re taller than you look from a distance, managing to outstrip even a gangly girl like me despite the uncomfortable heels I wore to help me fit in. Somehow I never stumble. Dancing with you is like riding a gentle wave into shore.  
  
  
The rest of the night you were a perfect gentleman, never failing to entertain me, or keep my glass fresh. I drank cranberry juice as I was never much for the taste of wine – and you kept my little secret. You’re remarkably easy to talk to, something I suppose I should have expected given how easily you navigated the different groups within our house at Hogwarts. If you’re after something, you don’t let on, keeping conversation light and thankfully devoid of the excessive compliments that always signal false flattery. Mostly you lead, rowing us through the muddy waters the more comfortable call small talk without wavering. I try my hand on occasion, telling you about my preference for nature over big cities and you even tolerate my worries about how a team riding five year-old Cleansweeps can hope to compete against the Nimbus-laden Second Division squads we’ll be up against next year. You make me blush when you idly mention my passing finesse and knack for scoring in the clutch. You’ve paid attention since before you painted that portrait and I wonder why. Ginny Potter is dancing next to us now with her husband, her smile infectious and her red hair burning bright. You don’t give them a second glance.  
  
  
When the music stopped and the speeches started, you took to drawing on a napkin. You were careful to hide whatever image you were vandalizing the linen with from my prying eyes and I decided not to question. As we say our goodbyes you press it into my hands. When I move to open it, you extract a promise I won’t – not yet. With bright eyes you smile – halfway – and then you’re gone.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
We got up extra early this morning because you wanted a picnic. I laughed at you when you suggested it, because honestly, what wizard wants a picnic? Eventually we made our way to my favorite hilltop. I shove you because despite my love for mornings it’s still not even dawn. You say it’s important. I say we should have flown. When did you become the serious one?  
  
  
We break bread on our checkered blanket, sitting together atop the charmed wool, safe from the damp ground beneath us. At this hour the grass is too wet even for me. As the air slowly warms around us and light begins to grow, we plan the day. You’re unusually quiet and noncommittal until I mention ditching you to train.  
  
  
Eventually, you reach into our basket and pull out a crumpled linen napkin in your hand. I recognize it immediately. But why is it here? And why would you use it to hide another muffin? With a flourish you open it and I see my face again as you saw it almost three years ago. We both smile, me at how much you’ve come to make me feel like the simple, brown-haired beauty in your picture, you at my reaction to it.  
  
  
We fall silent for a few moments, watching as the orange sun finally crests the treetops, bathing the canopy of the nearby forest in an almost golden light. I lean into you and you pull me tight. This is why you brought me here. I’ve been so busy preparing for the season this time around that it’s been too long since I’ve watched the literal break of day. I close my eyes and it feels so distant. In this moment, we are exactly where I want to be.  
  
  
I open them and the napkin’s been replaced. I suck in my breath. You hold in yours. It’s your art yes, but this one you did with magic. The image is new – not just me, but we. You whisper in my ear. I sniff loudly, turning until my eyes meet yours.  
  
  
 _Yes._  
  
  
 **A/N: This one-shot is for Sian/nott_theodore, one of my favorite members of our HPFF community and a wonderful friend. The writing is very different for me between the truly minor characters (Rionach O’Neal and Dean Thomas), the use of second-person, and writing from the perspective of a female character. Hope you enjoy this Sian! And that you don’t kill me for the fact that Rionach is only a quasi-canon character…**  
  
 **  
Anyway, thanks for being exceptionally awesome and welcoming! You’re a huge part of why I got more involved in the HPFF community and for that I’m forever grateful!**


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